


Monachopsis

by Karios



Category: The Good Place (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Michael Never Wins, Philosophy, Soulmates, except not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 21:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11677572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karios/pseuds/Karios
Summary: After several trips, Michael decides that telling them they're dead is the problem, so he doesn't this time.For Chidi, it's just another semester. So what if the phones never seem to work, and he gets these headaches all the time, and for some odd unexplainable reason he gets a case of the butterflies everytime he looks at the blond in the front row?For Eleanor, it's hell-on-earth, minus the Earth, but that should be obvious by now.





	Monachopsis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teethandstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teethandstars/gifts).



> Who requested in canon world AUs and more ethics lessons, and unleashed my philosophy geek.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> 7/11/17: Over 200 kudos! I love fellow fans of The Good Place. Thank you so much!
> 
> 20/2/18: 300 Kudos wow!
> 
> 13/09/18: 400 :)

When Eleanor wakes up, she's in the principal’s office. It looks like a principal’s office. There’s a big imposing desk in front of her, and a wobbly chair under her butt that squeaks as she turns to get a better look at the room. Mostly though she’s convinced by the terrible decorating sense, consisting of wood on wood. After a moment to look around, the door behind her opens and shuts. A gray-haired, glasses-wearing old dude crosses the room, and takes a seat behind the desk.

“Welcome Eleanor welcome!” He smiles broadly and sticks out a hand for her to shake.

Eleanor does, a bit tentatively and opens her mouth to say something but Principal Geezer starts up before she can, “Eleanor Shellstrop, welcome to Good Place Correctional University!”

Eleanor’s mouth snaps shut.

“I'm Dean D’Architect, but you can call me Michael.”

Great, Eleanor thinks, a more annoying principal. Outward, she says, “cool.”

“You look a little confused, do you remember why you're here?”

“No?” Eleanor replies slowly. Everything feels fuzzy, the harder she tries to think, like in the middle of a dream. University? She definitely isn't cut out for a university, she barely stumbled out of high school.

“Oh you poor dear, alcohol poisoning must have done a doozy on your memory,” he tuts. Dean Geezer, or Michael, proceeds to recount a number of crimes she’d committed and a trial she’d supposedly had. Even though Eleanor doesn't remember any of it, she finds herself nodding along. It seems enough like her, anyway.

Michael buzzes in her public defender, a man named Bambadjan, who looks vaguely familiar. He envelopes her in a warm hug, and launches into explaining the program.

“Like a regular jail, you're required to live onsite and won't have any contact with anyone on the outside, but instead of a cell you’ll live in a dorm, and be required to attend classes during the day.”

Eleanor frowns. “Classes?”

Bambadjan nods. “Life skills, academics, a little bit of everything. Next semester you’ll get to--”

“Whoa, whoa, wait,” Eleanor interrupts, “next semester? How long do I have to be here?”

“That depends,” Michael begins.

Eleanor admits, “It’s just prison sounds easier.”

Michael and Bambadjan exchange a glance. “Eleanor, your sentence is for three years, before you're even eligible for parole. Three years in prison is a long time."

Michael adds, “we get TV and the food is better. Come to lunch, and then decide.”

So Eleanor does, she stuffs herself with shrimp cocktail, and thick juicy steak, and fluffy welcome cake with icing, and decides she might be able to stay for a bit.

Michael takes her to a classroom, with a short, little nerdy guy in front, who is adjusting his glasses and writing on every available inch of chalkboard.

Michael’s grip tightens on Eleanor’s arm. “I think we have the wrong room.”

“Nonsense,” says the Nerd, spinning on his heels to face them, “always room for one more in Ethics. I'm Chidi Anagoyne, and you are?”

“Eleanor,” she squeaks, as Michael tugs her backward. “Eleanor Shellstrop.” She allows him to lead her all the way to a chair in the back corner, even though there are plenty of other open seats.

“Welcome Eleanor Shellstrop,” says the Nerd. Wait, no Chidi, and for some reason when he says it, she does feel welcome.

Out of the corner of her eye Eleanor thinks she notices Michael cursing the ceiling, but she must be imagining it, right? Either way, he’s gone in an instant, and Eleanor turns her attention to the class.

Or to carving a reply to one of the messages inked into the top of her desk, but that's close enough.

* * *

Later, Michael's waiting outside the classroom. “I'm going to escort you to your room too,” he says by way of explanation, “tomorrow we’ll assign your permanent escort, until you can be trusted to get around on your own.”

Eleanor bristles at this. “I think I can make it on my own right now, Deany.”

Michael’s smile dials up another notch. That must hurt his cheeks, she thinks. “Eleanor it's not a judgment! We’re just trying to keep everyone safe. People would be happy if there were this many guards in other prisons.”

Eleanor absorbs the not-so-subtle hint, and falls into step behind Michael. They arrive at a dorm building and Michael fumbles a key into a lock. “Each room is themed,” he informs her, as the door swings open. “You’ve got circus!” he declares with a jazz hand wave.

Eleanor looks around at the big primary colors, the big top mural on one wall. There’s a small bureau with an animal--elephant, lion, tiger--painted on each drawer, a bed, a nightstand, and a small desk. Eleanor’s eyes fall to the clown paintings flanking the bed.

“I used to hate clowns,” she tells Michael, peering intently at one of the images in an effort to determine why it no longer gives her the creeps. She gives up when her head starts to ache, deciding she's just too tired to care.

“Oh? And now?” he asks.

“It’s whatever,” she says, and crawls into bed fully dressed.

She rolls to face Michael and wonders if it is just her imagination, again, or if he actually looks disappointed? “Good night, Eleanor.”

“Good night Michael,” she drawls sleepily. He shuts the door behind himself, and locks the door behind her.

Her dreams are full of people and places she can't recognize, and when she wakes up in the middle of the night and pads to the bathroom for water, she's filled with an aching loneliness she doesn't understand.

* * *

Chidi for his part is enjoying his new job. At least, he thinks so. He should, at any rate; after all, teaching moral philosophy is good, but teaching it to prisoners was objectively better. Finding what society has deemed the least of themselves, and making their redemption both more pleasurable and more productive was form meeting function.

It was slightly unnerving that he didn't exactly remember applying, or the interview, or moving in for that matter. But everyone, from his students to his boss, assures him that he’d been perfectly content here at GPCU for nearly a month. His suite in the faculty dorm is comfortable and perfectly homey, full of his books and his furnishings. The grocer down the way stocks a wide variety of prepared foods as well as raw ingredients, all free of charge. Another perk of the position. For the most part he’s perfectly content to cook, and read, and teach. Even if he did seek Michael out first.

“Well, Chidi, if you're really concerned about it, we could find someone else to cover the rest of this term and welcome you back next semester.”

Chidi is about to agree, his head on the downward angle of a nod when Michael continues, “it's alright to let you out of this important _obligation_ to your students, after all we can't let you _compromise_ your health for an employment _commitment_. I'm sure we will find someone suitable, don't _worry_ about your students.”

“Well, I,” Chidi scrambles for words, as Michael pulls several pieces of paper out of a file cabinet.

“Here's a list of doctors and hospitals we’ve worked with, as well as options for your temporary housing until you feel comfortable about returning to campus. Also let us know with this form,” Michael adds another sheet to the stack, “what your substitute should cover.”

Chidi nods, and mutters out words of gratitude he no longer feels. He retreats to his room and studies the sheath of paper until the words blur in a way that has nothing to do with his glasses. He folds in the face of indecision and goes back to work in the morning.

After a few days, it's easy to talk himself into forgetting about the dissociative fugue or whatever else may have caused the tiny gap in his memory. He does wonder why Uzo never calls him, but figures he probably screwed up something bad enough at the wedding to finally ruin even his oldest friendship.

With Michael’s help being, well, decidedly unhelpful, Chidi resorts to something equal parts Cartesian and Mill-ian. He thinks, he paces, he lists pros and cons to the empty air. 

“I have more time to read,” he says brightly. Feeling determined to start on the positive, he adds, “and more time to write.” He turns, deflating slightly, “of course that's because there's no one to share anything with.”

He stops and squints like when you're searching hard for the right word. He adds the quiet to both pro and con side, and puts the headaches squarely on the latter.

The lists shift some. Some days he’s annoyed with a student and annoyed at himself for being annoyed. Other days are more positive, but one item keeps making the list. 

“I lost something important and I don't know what it is,” Chidi says finally, then trudges off to bed, only to forget by morning.

* * *

Eleanor spends her first few days playing along, but her enthusiasm wanes quickly in the face of increasing disappointment and algebra. First, the food in the cafeteria changes to the same tasteless crap you’d expect. Her guard, a jacked dude named Chris, turns out to be even more of a dud than she can stand. When he inevitably offers to 'do it' in the bathroom, she wonders what is wrong with this place if they're hiring Chris and why on earth she turns it, and him, down.

It's enough to get her to switch tactics, and she throws herself into getting expelled. She flushes weird objects down the toilets like a curious toddler, but they never seem to clog. She pulls the fire alarms next, but the evacuations are deeply unsatisfying. She anticipated panic. Instead, most of the students and teachers seem as relieved to be outside as she remembered they did back in high school. On her third and final shot at it, she spots poor Chidi breathing heavily into a paper bag. For some reason, the image is enough to make the alarm idea off limits. She switches to leaving dissection frogs tucked into weird crevices, but even that isn't enough.

Ultimately, she finds the right formula, when she begins ‘borrowing’ the empty chemistry lab to make stink bombs.

Michael calls her into his office immediately. She tries not to look true triumphant. “We’re trying to practice leniency here, but we can't have you burning down or blowing up the school, Eleanor.”

“I know. Cuff me. I'm done here, Deany.” Eleanor sticks out her wrists, giving them a slight wiggle for emphasis.

Michael purses his lips. “I do wish you'd reconsider. Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable here?” He leans over and grins like they're coconspiritors. “Between you and me, I can't afford another dropout right now, so I’d be willing to pull a string or two.”

Eleanor considers, making a show of tapping her chin, as if she hadn't been thinking about this for days. “No more leash, as long as I get to class, I can walk myself. And another TV channel.”

“Serve out the day suspension, promise to steer clear of the science labs, and you’ve got a deal.”

They shake on it, and her new channel is full of the good stuff: daytime talk shows full of miserable families willing to humilate themselves for a few minutes on screen. But ultimately, she agrees because a day sitting alone in Michael’s cramped office isn't the paradise a day all to herself with nothing to do, once was. She was bored enough to actually read one of Michael’s books by the time he springs her for dinner.

She settles into a grudging routine of attending most of her classes, and waits. For what, she isn't sure.

* * *

When Chidi returns to class the next day, he’s surprised to find Eleanor already in her seat, pencil sharpened and at the ready. He sets the stack of exams down and smiles at her. “Good afternoon Eleanor. Do you need an extra day, or are you ready for the exam today? Just asking because you missed the review.”

“I know, but I'm ready,” she says, confidently. A tenative smile graces her features. “I studied.”

“Well good,” Chidi says, his smile shifting to match hers. “I know we missed you around here yesterday.” And though Eleanor’s barely said more than a handful of words in class, he realizes it's not an empty pleasantry, he means it.

He also notices a few days later, when she switches seats to the front row, starts raising her hand for more than permission to use the bathroom, and stays after class to ask him about the assigned portion of Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

Nietzsche, he reasons at first, is a gateway drug.

Never mind the way she pats his arm when they talk, or the suprisingly thoughtful insights her essays reveal, even if her examples are...unorthodox.

His denial is eventually bowled over, when a few weeks later, after hearing her complain about the cafeteria again he says, “I could have you over for dinner?” Immediately his tongue dries out, and his stomach flips over, and his palms are so damp he’s sure to leave puddles on his khakis.

“To your place?” she asks, not shocked nor appalled, he notes.

He nods. “At my place. I’ve been cooking. It’s better with two...people to enjoy the food that I'm cooking. Which isn't a presumption that you’ll enjoy it, just there's fewer leftovers and things aren't really packaged for one, and I'm just going to stop talking now.”

“I’d love to.”

“You would? I mean, is seven alright?”

“Seven’s perfect,” she replies, before he can second guess himself and offer more options. “Room number?” she prompts, her voice more gentle than he’d thought it could be.

He tells her, once he finally remembers it, and she scrawls on her hand. She draws him into a one armed hug, careful not to smudge the fresh ink. He relaxes a little. Not fully, that comes later, after checking every school manual and rulebook he can get his hands on, as well as all applicable local and national laws. It’s progress.

* * *

Dinner at Chidi’s is good. Better than good, even though it's apparently weird African food. He tells her about Senegal and she tells him about Arizona, and she's not bored like she usually is when other people are talking.

“If you’ve spent your whole life in Arizona, how do you speak such fluent French?” he puzzles.

Her first reaction is to point out that that's just as rude as assuming he couldn't speak English, but she can't manage to find the anger. “I don't?” she offers honestly.

Chidi laughs, like she told a really great joke. Long and loud, and she likes his laugh too. It's cozy like Chidi’s house, and just so very Chidi that nothing else matters.

Falling for her dorky teacher should bother her. When she tries to figure out why it doesn't, why instead she's comfortable, a lightning bolt of pain explodes behind her eyes.

“Are you alright?” Chidi asks, his face flooded with concern.

“Headache,” she whimpers, her breath stolen by the intensity of it.

He reaches up and presses the back of his hand to her forehead. “I get them too, ever since I got here.”

She has the strongest urge to kiss his cool beautiful fingers. “I should head home. Get some rest,” she mutters but makes no attempt to move.”

“You could stay here,” he suggests, helping her to stretch out on the couch.

“That sounds good.” Chidi’s couch is soft and inviting, even before he covers her up with a blanket or cards his fingers in her hair. She sleeps.

* * *

The next morning isn't magic, it’s just enough to open the floodgates. Enough to make her stop ignoring the strange coincidences and push through to what she’d lost.

A familiar face in the hall that makes her look, like really look. Bambadjan’s next hug, which sparks dreams about a whole different trial. Even, a perfectly ordinary moment when she rights a garbage can and carefully kicks the trash back inside. Some, okay most, are things about Chidi. The way his head tilts to one side, rather than complain, even when she called him Mr. Annagoatsyay. More than anything, though it's the way her name on his lips made her...tingle and Eleanor Shellstrop does not forking tingle.

Wait.

"Fork," she tests aloud.

"Clam it. I did not miss this shirt!"

Of course. Now that she remembers the swear filter is back. And she does remember.

Memories clash and tangle up with each other worse than a blob of stirred spaghetti. The audio and video of her mind's eye contradict each other like too many youtube tabs open each playing a different song. Pain sears at her temples as she catalogues and rearranges the narrative of Michael's increasingly creative versions of hell. The room around her stop spinning and her mind stills. “Ha!” Eleanor whispers defiantly at the ceiling. "I'm back. Take that." Only slightly worse for wear, Eleanor resolves to help Chidi get his memories back next, before another reset.

* * *

Eleanor corners him one day after class, with an excuse about having a question about their most recent exam.

“Eleanor, as I remember you did very well,” he says scanning the test booklet clutched in her right hand.

"This isn't actually about the test," Eleanor corrects, depositing it on the desk behind her. She takes a deep breath. “Okay, so you know how Descartes reasoned because god was good, he could trust that god wouldn't trick him, therefore he could trust his thoughts, right?”

“Go on?” Chidi says, and she wonders if she’s mentioned something not quite right, but it would have to do. “Well what if God was evil? How would he decide the nature of reality then?”

Chidi blinks. “I'm not sure he’d say we could.”

“Okay, forget Descartes. What about other guys?”

“Did you have anyone specific in mind?”

She shakes her head.

“Well some would apply logic, or reason, others experimented. There are shared consensus theorists, behaviorists...epistemology isn't really my field, but I could recommend some books. Why the sudden interest?”

Eleanor glances anxiously between the door and Chidi, again and again as he talks. This is going to take too long. She needs to either abort and retreat or switch tactics. And she misses him, the fully aware him, so badly her chest aches.

“Forgive me if this doesn't turn out the way I think it will,” she says, her face pinched with worry.

“If what doesn't...” he starts to ask, but she puts a finger to his lips, shushing him. Then her lips carefully replace that finger, and she kissing him, and he's kissing her back.

The pain in her head starts to increase, but she doesn't care. She won't forget; she won't let go. Not yet, and not without him. She reaches up and cups his face between her hands, searching for the signs of recognition as she gently breaks the kiss.

“Eleanor,” he says, soft and dreamy.

“Welcome back, bud.” She offers him a small smile.

“Were you alone long?” he asks, taking one of her hands from his temples to hold in his own.

She shakes her head, the same answer she would give him if it had been ten hours or a hundred years.

“Jason and Tahani?”

“We’ll find them,” she promises. “Later.”

“And now?”

“Right now, we have some catching up to do,” she murmurs and leans in for another kiss.


End file.
